Fissures in the Masks They Wore
by OldCrabappleMcKinley
Summary: As a mysterious lady ropes him into a world draped in crime and sin, cub reporter Armin Arlert finds himself torn between the hard truths he's always known and an enticing web of lies. He must be prepared to choose one, but the prospect of both may too good to pass up. [1920's AU, Sequel to Miss Scarlet Sunrise, Working Title]


**A sequel to _Miss Scarlet Sunrise._ If you didn't read it, or don't plan to, basically what happens is that Armin and Annie meet in a speakeasy and talk for a bit until she leaves with a business associate.**

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Armin woke with a loud pounding in his head equal to the pounding on his door.

Tasting a foul, sour flavor in his dry mouth, he urged his heavy eyelids to open with herculean effort. The image of his small room swam into view and focused on the door opposite of him, threatening to come off its hinges with each knock.

He groaned as he hoisted himself up out of his bed, his sheets tangled and twisted around his body. Freeing himself from their linen grip, he stood and immediately plopped back down on the mattress. The ache in his right leg told him it was going to be a bad day.

The bright sunlight sneaked in through the venetian blinds that covered the window and singed Armin's eyes as it filled his small room. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep off his hangover. However, the thunderous beating on the door wouldn't cease and soon Jean's agitated voice accompanied it.

"Oi, Armin, get your ass out here!"

Armin weighed his options, but he soon realized that Jean was too stubborn to quit. He took a moment to compose himself, and shouldering the pain in his leg, he stepped toward his door.

Opening it ever so slightly, Armin peered into the hallway of the tenement. "What is it Jean?" he groused, not too keen on having been awakened in such a violent manner.

"Jeez," Jean said, taking in his appearance, "you look terrible. I knew I should have cut you off last night. It would've saved me the trouble of hauling your drunk ass home."

Armin frowned, the throbbing at the base of his skull increasing. "I'm in no mood Jean. Just tell me why you woke me up so early."

"Armin it's twelve o'clock," he scoffed. "You must have really been zozzled. Probably because you were making eyes at that broad."

The rusty cogs of Armin's mind began to churn at the mention of the previous night. He knitted his eyebrows together as he dug through the blurry memories. A few drinks here, a few more over there. A woman. Her strong, exotic face. Her striking eyes of the palest blue. That smile of hers, sardonic, but masking something else, something brittle, something he wasn't sure of. Her hand carelessly circling the rim of her glass. Her dress, conservative but unafraid of showing off her womanly figure.

He felt his ears heat up as his thoughts wandered to borderline indecency.

He shot a look at Jean. "I don't need you telling me what happened. I was there wasn't I?" he grumbled.

The other man chuckled, "I'm not too certain that was the case."

What little enthusiasm Armin had for the conversation was depleting quickly as the pain in his neck leeched into the back of his eyes. "Why were you knocking on my door?" he asked in a calm, if not pressed manner.

Jean sighed, disappointed Armin was able to evade arguments so easily. He reached behind his back and pulled out two pieces of paper from his waistband. "Your letters were in my mailbox again. This one is a massage from your boss," he said extending the letter to Armin, "and this one is from your girlfriend in the Orient."

"She doesn't live in the Orient Jean, she lives across town," Armin retorted, snatching the papers out of his hands. "Besides she's not my girlfriend," he muttered.

Jean snorted and sauntered next door to his room. "Whatever. Just make sure your shit stays out of my box, okay?" He fumbled with his keys for a moment, not making as grand of an exit as he would have liked, then disappeared into his room.

Armin leaned against the doorframe and looked through his mail. The letter he received from Mikasa had been unexpected; he hadn't heard from her in a few weeks and he smiled at the thought of someone actually giving a damn about keeping him in the loop.

He was about to open it when the large red letters on the message from the office caught his eye. Setting Mikasa's letter on the small table inside, Armin examined the envelope. At the top left in the fanciful old English lettering read _The Shiganshina Gazette. _An attempt to fit in with the older, elite newspapers, no doubt.

Though he appreciated his job, Armin had higher aspirations than the local paper of the city's outermost district. Covering the competition between seafood venders was not the kind of hard-hitting reporting he had set out to do. In truth, he wanted to uncover scandal and injustice and expose it to the outside world. Monsters lurked in the depths of human hearts, and he believed it was up to the members of the press to weed those monsters out.

But, any other naïve and whimsical notions he had about the field of journalism were halted in his mind as he read the large red letters that spelled "URGENT" underneath his name. Seeing no stamp on the envelope, he reasoned some messenger had dropped it off in the last few hours. Breaking the seal, he read the contents of the letter:

_Armin,_

_Please come by the offices as soon as possible. There are important matters we need to discuss regarding your last story._

_Hannes_

A sinking feeling wormed its way into his stomach. Being called in on a day off was never a good sign at the _Gazette_ and to have the meeting involve the farce he called his latest story just added to his uneasiness. Understanding the gravity of what this meeting might entail, he resolved to go into the office.

Shuffling back into his room, Armin stood before his mirror and gave himself a once over. Jean wasn't kidding when he said he looked awful. He was still in the clothes he wore the night before and due to his heavy sleep, deep creases rose from the material of his shirt and pants. The vest he had on was buttoned wrong in several places and hung on his body awkwardly.

Armin put his hands to his face and rubbed it thoroughly, hoping to wipe off some of the sleep that held his mind captive. Inspecting his face in the mirror, he saw his complexion was paler and more sallow than its usual pinkish hue and his large eyes had an uncharacteristic haze over them. He looked like a train wreck.

Slapping some water on his face from the washbasin near his bed, he pulled on a fresh dress shirt and a pair of slacks. He hoped he looked halfway presentable for work. He noted the rat's nest on his head before he opened the door to leave and quickly ran a brush through his long hair, fighting the many tangles that had formed over the course of the night.

Deeming himself fit to be seen by society, Armin lurched out into the hallway of the cramped apartment building and nearly collided into Marco who was just exiting his room as well.

"Morning Armin," he beamed.

It had always been difficult maintaining a bad mood around Marco and despite his current state, Armin attempted to respond to his friend in an amiable manner, "Good morning Marco. Off to the station I see?"

Marco stood at attention after locking his door and polished the police badge on his chest with his sleeve, the dazzling brass shining the number 673. "That I am. Where are you off to?" he asked, "Don't you have Fridays off?"

Armin gave him an unexcited expression as he held up his letter of summons. "I've been called in." He leered at the hostile looking red letters on the envelope, "No doubt to get reprimanded yet again about my story."

Marco strolled down the hallway towards the stairwell, mindful of Armin who trailed behind him. He spun around and looked at him sympathetically, "Golly, was your boss really that mad at you?"

"Yeah," Armin admitted, finally reaching Marco at the top of the stairs. Slowly, he took a step down while clinging to the rickety wooden handrail. He wondered why he ever agreed to rent an apartment on the fourth floor of the building. "The only reason he's all lathered up though is because I talked a big game and told him I was going to bust that whole story within the week."

Marco, resting on the bottom step, stared at him consolingly as he took each step one by one. "It might not have been the best idea to tell him that Armin…"

He gave a hollow chuckle, "Probably not," he said, touching the bottom and shuffling to the next set of stairs. "It was stupid of me to try and rush into the story. I mean, you even told me that the Titan Syndicate hadn't dropped any kind of evidence for the police, so why would I think a cub reporter like me could take them on?"

"Hey," Marco began, climbing up a few steps to lay a hand on Armin's shoulder, "don't talk like that buddy. I'm sure you could have found a lead if you poked around some more."

"Thanks, Marco," he said, smiling halfheartedly at his friend. He discreetly rolled his shoulder out from underneath Marco's hand, uncomfortable with the contact, and continued to walk down the stairs.

A small frown formed on Marco's face as he watched Armin go on without him. "Armin," he inquired, "how are you feeling?"

"What, about the leg?" Amin asked, looking up from the last set of steps that lay in front of him. "It's not too ducky this morning. And these infernal stairs aren't helping in the slightest."

"No, I meant just all around."

"Oh, well," he trailed off. "I'm… doing alright I suppose." His feet landed heavily each time he went down a step. "The situation with the story still has me feeling a little down, but I can't really complain."

"Uh-huh."

Marco kept a wary eye on Armin as they reached the ground floor. He hopped down the last steps himself and watched his friend pick at the tatty wallpaper, doing his best to mask his tiredness from walk down. He was leaning weightily against wall adjacent to the stairwell.

"Well," Marco said with a brief sigh, "shall we go out?"

Armin pushed himself up and stood behind Marco as he yanked on the heavy wooden door that led out to the street. Marco breezed outside but as Armin caught his fist glimpse of unobscured sunlight, he recoiled slightly and brought his arm up to shield his eyes. The brightness flooded into his head and brought a sharp pain along with it.

"Hey, Armin," Marco said, noticing his twisted expression, "Are you okay? You don't look too well."

He blinked wildly and eventually the view of the street became clearer. The tall brick buildings of the South Maria neighborhood stood from the dirty sidewalk. There weren't many people out, as it was midday, thought there were few that peppered the next street over, one of the main roads that ran north to south.

Armin plodded down the cement steps of his building's stoop and gave a weak smile to Marco. "Yeah, I just… didn't get too much sleep last night." He had never liked lying to Marco.

He nodded, seeming satisfied with the explanation, and they soon began to walk towards the busier street in silence. The ache in Armin's head had migrated to his temples and the constant thrum of the blood in his head was doing him no favors. The sunlight, while more tolerable, was still affecting him in the most negative ways. He was contemplating stopping by a drug store to pick up some aspirin when Marco suddenly spoke:

"You were at that gin mill again, weren't you?"

Armin jerked his head up towards the police officer. He opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't find any words that would aid his defense.

Marco continued to walk forward, his eyes glued to the pavement in front of him, but a look of disappointment evident on his face.

"Look Armin, alcohol is illegal and it's my job to try and stop that sort of thing, but I don't want to haul you in. You're a swell fella, and have been one of my best friends since the war."

Armin swallowed a hard lump in his throat, hoping to avoid the conversation like how he was avoiding looking in Marco's direction. He tensed his shoulders and let out a sharp sigh, unable to think of a deflection.

"I know times have been tough on you lately," he continued, "but going out and getting ossified all the time isn't the best way to handle it."

His words poked at the heavy pit growing in his stomach. "Marco," Armin interjected, "I don't want to deal about this right now…"

"I want you to know that I'm here if you ever want to talk it out -"

Armin's face involuntarily contorted and he felt the muscles in his jaw stiffen into tight frown. "Marco," he beseeched in a thick voice, "please. Drop it."

Marco still stared at the sidewalk in front of him as he walked along and exhaled though his nose. "Fine," he said quietly, "I won't bring it up. Just think about it okay?"

Armin clenched his jaw, realizing the consequences of discussing the issue further would only exacerbate his frustration. They marched in silence as they rounded the corner onto the large avenue. The two of them were momentarily held up by the throngs of people leaving local restaurants to return from their lunch breaks and soon began to weave their way through the crowd.

The wave of bodies hastening to their automobiles and rushing to call taxis made Armin huffed, the pulsing in both his skull and his leg quickening.

They continued on wordlessly for several more blocks until they reached the trolley stop at River Street. Armin sat on the metal bench, thankful to be off his feet. He rested his forearms on his thighs and within seconds, he started tracing the metal lines in the pavement with his eyes.

The grooves, evidence of the vast network of streetcars that that ambled around the city, ran in straight parallel lines that interlaced at street junctions. He followed their paths and once they trailed out of his sight, he brought his gaze up to the electrified lines overhead that powered the cars.

Looking at the wires meticulously and methodically; it was all he could do to keep himself out of the growing maw that Marco had unintentionally brought up. Unpleasant feelings tried desperately to worm their way into his mind, intent on dragging him into a trench of self-pity. He didn't particularly want to have a spell in public.

His battle to shake himself from his discouraging thoughts was interrupted when he felt an elbow dig into his shoulder. Armin looked at the smiling face standing above him, and gave him a confused look. "What was that for?"

Marco's smile broadened ever so slightly, "I was talking to Jean this morning and he said you were smitten with a girl last night."

He stared at Marco, unsure how to respond.

"Jean said she looked like a gold-digger or maybe even a moll," he continued absent-mindedly.

"She wasn't a moll," Armin countered, his answer leaving his mouth before he could think. "…I mean, she was in a ritzy dress, but she was like a business woman, not some gangster's cheap quiff."

Marco guffawed at his last sentence, "Gee Armin, those are some strong words. She must have made quite an impression on you."

Armin made a series of unintelligible sounds, still baffled by the sudden change in tone. Then again, Marco had always been one to try to keep the mood light. "Why are you asking about this?"

Marco threw his arm around his shoulder and leaned heavily on him, causing Armin to buckle slightly. "It's not everyday that you take so much interest in a lady. It's a big occasion. And besides," he said shifting his hand to rest on the back of the bench, "I heard it from Jean; you know how terrible of a story teller he is, so spill it, I want the details."

Looking around, hoping to find an answer, Armin only saw their approaching streetcar. Lifting himself up, he simply stated, "We just talked a little and then she left."

"Oh come on," Marco expelled dramatically, "You can do better than that. What did you talk about? The weather?"

Armin gave him a flat look as the car pulled into their stop. "No, I'm not that much of a flat tire," he said, hoisting himself through the door of the trolley and paying his fare.

"I don't know about that," his friend joked from behind him.

For all the busyness they had seen on the street, the car was surprisingly empty. They wandered to the middle section of seats and plopped down on the slatted, wooden bench.

Armin stared out the window and felt the car lurch into motion. As the scenery out on the street floated by the window, he drudged through the somewhat cloudy passages of his memory. Secretly, he was glad Marco brought up the woman; she was transfixing in someway. She had this unexplainable air that compelled her in his thoughts.

Armin smiled softly. He couldn't help wanting to talk about her.

"We talked about my job and from there, we talked a bit about writing."

Marco was slightly startled at the broken silence, but glad to see Armin willing to continue the conversation. "Writing, huh?" he chuckled, "Leave it to you to find another bookworm so the both of you can talk about Charles Dickens."

"No, it wasn't like that," Armin said, mood improving with every word spoken, "It was more like a joke. I said something and she was all, 'With words like that you should have been a writer.' You know, flirty banter."

Amusement flashed on Marco's face. "Flirty banter? From you? I'd play a hundred clams to see that." Armin cast a sidelong glance, an entertained smile hovering.

"Well you did write that play all those years ago." Marco hummed as he shifted in his seat. "That you've never let me read by the way," he added with a playful jab at Armin's ribs.

The streetcar tottered to on side as it turned a corner onto King's Road. Armin balanced in his seat as he faintly said, "You wouldn't want to read that; I wrote that thing when I was still a kid. Everything was different then." He flicked his eyes out the window for a moment. "I was different."

"Ah," nodded Marco. "You know, they always say you are your own worst critic," reassured Marco, attempting to steer the conversation away from the dark topic it might get into. "Any other interesting topics come up when you two were beating your gums?"

Armin leaned back on the bench and brought a hand to his chin. His head still vibrated with a dull ache. "I can't rightly remember much of what we spoke about. I mostly remember what she was like."

"Well what _was_ she like?"

He sighed, staring up at the painted steel ceiling. "She was…" Beautiful. Mysterious. Cold. Vulnerable. "…unreal."

Marco gave a low whistle. " Golly, you seem really stuck on this Jane."

Armin smiled gently to himself. "I guess I kind of am."

"What was her name?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Marco shouted, causing all inhabitants of the sparsely occupied car to turn their heads in their direction. "How can you go on and on about this girl and not know her name?"

"She never gave it," Armin defended, "It was part of this neat line she gave, part of the flirty banter!"

"Ugh," Marco breathed, pulling the stop request cable behind Armin's head. "One of these days we're going to have a talk about the proper way to speak to girls. In the meantime," he peered through the window as the police station came into view, "I'm going to look into more of the Titan case for your story."

"What? No, Marco-"

"Just let me see what information I can get for you," he interrupted, standing up as he did so. "I can ask my buddies and some of my superiors. I'm sure I can ferret something out for you."

"Marco I appreciate it, but I'd rather do this on my own."

" Nonsense." The trolley groaned as it came to a stop a few buildings down the street from the precinct. "I want to help you out, and I won't take 'no' for an answer."

"But Marco..."

"Hey, don't worry Armin." He flashed his trademark smile and Armin felt his reservations begin to dissolve. "I'll see you later buddy."

"Bye Marco."

He scooted his way through the rows of benches and quickly turned back to Armin. "Just to let you know, I'm working the long shift today, so don't really expect me around until tomorrow morning."

Armin gave a quick nod as confirmation and with that, Marco blew past the open trolley door.

The car heaved into motion and Armin took Marco's empty spot on the bench. Looking behind him though the windows, he could see his friend standing on the corner waving at the streetcar. He gave a small wave back, knowing that he probably couldn't see him as he travelled further and further away.

As the car moved him closer to his destination, Armin felt pricks of anxiety through him. In all his talk with Marco, he had momentarily forgotten where he was heading. Hannes was already displeased with his work and being called in so urgently didn't feel like a positive sign.

However, in spite of that, Armin felt remarkably calmer than he had earlier that morning. Marco always had the unique ability to soothe people's tempers. Though his conversation with him had brought up some unpleasant ideas, Armin was smart enough to realize that the man only cared about him and his well-being.

Maybe if Marco turned up some new information about the Titan Syndicate's activities, Hannes might not take harsh action against him. Maybe if he could get a good lead on the story, Armin could turn his luck around. Maybe he was just worrying about nothing.

Armin stared out the window watching the city go by, reassured slightly by these thoughts. But in the back of his mind, the small, ugly, nagging doubt left him unable to wholly rest easy.

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**This is the first time I'm attempting a multichapted story, so forgive me if this this is too exposition-y for you. This first chapter is probably more than twice as long as anything I've written, so that's neat too. I also wouldn't expect updates to be too frequent, but I am going to try my darndest to work on this. **

**If you think this absolutely awful and I've made a mockery of everything ever, go check out theowlinsomniac's story _XX_, also set in the 20's. S'pretty dang good. Fun fact: Annie's actually in that one.**


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